Time After Time

by Elizabeth Boyce

  On a lonely battlefield far from here, he could die. A bullet, illness, exposure — any number of things could take him from her. Her intense, vibrant husband could cease to be. His blue eyes, which saw even the truths she sought to hide, could see no more. His mind, so strong and ponderous, could stop.

  She had known it, of course. Had kissed him, had given herself to him, in part because she was acutely aware of his mortality. But every time she remembered the peril he would soon be in, she was chilled anew. Why had she goaded him into going to war? Why had she married him? Margaret felt weak. Was her life at the seminary really so unpleasant that she had married a man she didn’t love and with whose shrewish mother she might have to pass the rest of her days?

  She looked up at the structure, a brick two-story affair with large windows framed with black shutters, all topped by proud chimneys. She whispered a silent prayer for the strength with which to climb the steps, for a softening of Mrs. Ward’s heart, and, above all, for Theo’s life.

  Margaret knocked, aware the resulting noise was tinny and likely ineffectual. Yet not moments later, the door sprung open, revealing the housekeeper Mrs. Ruskin. She was a slim, hard woman in her mid-fifties whose hair had already gone all to silver. Her chill at the impromptu wedding dinner the previous evening had been frosty and impressive. Clearly, Margaret had many people to win over in the coming weeks and months.

  “Good morning!” she said, with all the brightness she could muster given her melancholy train of thought. It wasn’t enough to win over the housekeeper, but it was a start. “Isn’t it a lovely day? I didn’t get a chance to thank you last night for all your hard work putting together such a beautiful meal. I apologize we gave you so little warning.”

  Mrs. Ruskin raised a brow and allowed her eyes to apprise Margaret. Her pinched lips communicated all was not to her liking, but just the same, she moved to the side to allow Margaret to enter.

  “Mrs. Ward is in the breakfast room. Shall I take you to her?”

  “By all means.”

  The house through which she led Margaret was, in a word, grand. While Theo had alluded to his money during his proposal, she had thought of it even less than she had of his mother. The decorations were in the Empire style, with fine, heavy furnishings and beautiful, dark fabrics. The house made Margaret stand a little straighter and press her shoulders back to fit in. There was no possibility of slouching here. Apprehension racked her body.

  At least in the breakfast room there was sunshine. At the head of the small table, framed by golden streams of light, sat Mrs. Ward. She smiled faintly and indicated the chair opposite her, silently bidding Margaret to take it.

  “Tea?”

  “Yes, please.”

  The pouring ritual occurred. Hands, water, porcelain, silver, with the accompanying soft chiming of metal on china, the rising of steam, and, finally, the smell of tea. It was comforting and familiar.

  Then they sipped in a long, conspicuous silence. Perhaps they could spend Theo’s absence entirely in this monk-like manner.

  Alas, it was not to be. Crossing her hands in her lap to match her ankles, Mrs. Ward at last asked a question. “When does Theodore intend to return home?”

  Margaret blushed at this veiled reference to their honeymoon but responded firmly. “If he has a plan, Mrs. Ward, he hasn’t shared it with me.”

  “I see.” The pronouncement all but thudded on the table.

  Margaret felt frustrated and self-conscious. Maybe she could create some common ground? “The past week has been overwhelming for me as well. There has been little time to make let alone discuss plans.”

  Mrs. Ward regarded her over the lip of her cup. “How do you feel about my son’s enlistment?”

  She blamed Margaret for putting her son in danger? Well, it was a natural, and not entirely incorrect, conclusion. “I worry for him. He is after all my husband.” Margaret knew that she had to assert her claim too. “But we, neither of us, could keep Theo from that which he feels so strongly about.”

  Mrs. Ward set her saucer on the table with the faintest clatter and said coolly, “None of your people were at the service yesterday.”

  Just as coolly, Margaret replied, “As you know, I have very few ‘people.’ My parents are dead. My only surviving sibling, my sister Emily, is with her family in Virginia. She could not travel under the present circumstances, even if she had warning, which of course she did not. A few teachers and students from the seminary were present, but most had already departed for the summer recess.”

  “Do you intend to resign your post?” Mrs. Ward followed up.

  “I have resigned as headmistress. She must reside at the school, and Theo feels my place is here, with him … and you. Depending on the board’s decision, I may retain a position on the faculty, however.”

  Her future at the seminary confused her. When she’d faced eternity there, she wanted to leave. Now that she’d been offered a way out, she wasn’t sure she wanted to take it. Particularly if the alternative was more time with this lovely woman.

  “I see.” Those words and that heavy, judgmental silence again. Maybe Theo’s four-decade-long stasis made sense.

  This was becoming tedious, however. She had but little patience for these games. “Mrs. Ward, I know you don’t approve of me.” The ensuing silence was reply enough, Mrs. Ward apparently felt.

  Margaret continued, “I assure you, however, I care for your son. I will make him a good wife.”

  Mrs. Ward cocked her head to look out the window on the small, well-kept garden. Without returning her eyes to Margaret she said, “You may call me Sarah, if you like.” There was another beat while they both regarded vegetables and flowers through the window and allowed this shift to digest.

  “I’m wary of you,” Mrs. Ward — Sarah — said when her daughter-in-law did not speak. Margaret was unsurprised and appreciated the candor.

  Theo’s mother continued, “He was in a very bad way after your engagement ended. For months he walked around like a ghost of his former self. Even once he returned to the land of the living, he was changed. I blamed you. I’d like to believe this time will be different, and you will prove a good wife. I want to see him happy.”

  It was painful for Margaret to hear about that period in her husband’s life. She wondered if it might help her relationship with her mother-in-law to tell her she too had spent months in a daze. That the end of their engagement had nearly broken her. But she didn’t yet trust Sarah enough to be so vulnerable.

  Instead, Margaret answered her question, “As do I.” Even as she said the words, she realized how true they were.

  “You spoke of caring for Theodore, but not loving him.” Margaret was unsure how to reply. The truth would hardly help her cause.

  After a pointed tip of her head, Sarah offered commentary. “He loves you. Well nigh drunk with it, he is. Guard his heart, for he has given it to you.”

  In this at least, Margaret could be firm. “I would never hurt your son.”

  The older woman shook her head. “That remains to be seen.” Margaret had the distinct impression she had been dismissed.

  “Shall I show you the house?”

  They rose together and proceeded on a tour. The Ward residence seemed to go on and on: the breakfast room, the sitting room, the parlor, the dining room, the large foyer … Could one family possibly use all this space? How was it all to be cleaned? Maybe she and Sarah could lose one another during the day rather than resolving their mutual distrust?

  Upstairs, every door opened onto another bedroom. Six in all! Margaret blushed deeply when Sarah opened the door to the room she would share with Theo. Helpfully, the older woman did not offer any further commentary other than to say, “The master suite.” Even in that title, however, Sarah made herself clear: this was Theo’s room. He might share it with Margaret, but s
he had no real place here.

  “I have never kept a house,” Margaret confessed when they returned to the breakfast room. “I’m nervous.”

  “You’re up to the task, I’m sure,” Sarah replied. Her voice was so dry it nearly cracked.

  Before she could formulate a reply to this latest barb, Theo interrupted. He entered the room beaming with absolutely no self-consciousness. Margaret’s heart constricted.

  “Well, Mother, have you shown my wife our humble abode?” he called, his lanky arm slipping about the older woman’s waist and giving her a squeeze.

  “Everything but the yard.”

  “I will rectify that oversight. Margaret, get your bonnet.”

  Once they were outside, he swept her into an embrace. She wriggled her arms onto his chest and put some space between them. “Theo, control yourself.”

  “No. In the street before my office, yes, but not in my own home. Not when I have only three weeks left with you.”

  He intended to be at this a while, she could tell. He claimed her mouth firmly, and his ardor melted her protestations. He was an impossible man, but whatever objections she had had could not be located in his arms. Did she really have less than a month with him?

  Once she was good and committed to the endeavor, he wove his fingers in her coiffure to anchor her against him. Sometime later, he said against her mouth, “How were things with Mother?”

  “We’ll do,” she whispered.

  She could feel his grin. “Glad to hear it. How much longer do you want to remain at McDonough House?”

  “A few more nights at least.”

  He laughed and she could feel it in every part of her body.

  “Whatever my wife requires.”

  “Theo, I have one request.”

  “Only one?”

  “You must promise me you will try to come home from this war. For me. For … S — your mother.”

  He cupped her face and looked into her eyes. “My darling girl, I will return to you. I could not have achieved you finally only to lose you again. Whatever it takes, whatever the cost, I will return to you.”

  “You cannot promise that — only that you will try.”

  He sighed. “I will move the foundation of the earth before I fail to return to you. Now forget about the neighbors and kiss me.”

  Chapter VII

  “Sydney Carton has every advantage, Ward, so why would he be content to disappear into Charles Darnay’s life?” Josiah cackled.

  One week after his wedding, Theo was basking in the light spread by the warm family scene. Josiah had come for dinner and now they were all gathered in the parlor debating the merits of Mr. Dickens’ latest, A Tale of Two Cities, and enjoying coffee.

  “Unhappiness!” Theo answered, attempting to explain Carton to the assembly, who seemed determined to misunderstand the character. “You’re of a naturally jovial disposition, Josiah, so I know it is a mystery to you, but to those of us who are more — ”

  “Melancholic?” Mother offered. She’d spent much of the past week needling Margaret and him about their relationship. There were veiled references to their failed engagement and his subsequent depression. Questions about the future no one could answer. Scorn and derision for Margaret’s skills as a housekeeper. Luckily his wife was adept at turning the other cheek.

  “Complex,” he offered as a substitute adjective. “To people like me, it makes sense. Carton may appear to have all the ingredients for contentment, but that doesn’t mean he feels it.”

  Theo turned to his wife, who was pouring and smiling to herself. “I’m certain you understand, Margaret.”

  “I most certainly do not,” she replied, picking up a sugar cube with a pair of tongs and dropping it into his cup. “Sydney Carton is intelligent, honorable, wealthy, attractive. If he was unhappy with his life, why can he not change it?”

  Amusement shimmered over her features. Obviously a lot was at stake beyond the power of Mr. Dickens’ characters. Everyone seemed to think he was a stand-in for Carton. Beyond their mutual training in the law, he didn’t see it.

  “You’re all impossible,” Theo said good-naturedly, slamming his hands down on the arms of his chair. “Carton sacrifices himself for Lucie’s happiness. Twice. Is that not admirable? Should we not celebrate that?”

  Mother was digging in her workbasket for her embroidery, and Josiah was too busy laughing at him to respond.

  “It’s the why of the story, Theo. Should we not question it?” Margaret said as she handed him his cup.

  “Self-sacrifice is a widely celebrated virtue,” he insisted. The assembly was openly amused by him now. “It’s as if you aren’t listening to me at all.”

  “No, it’s as if you aren’t listening to us,” Josiah responded in such a tone as to suggest as usual.

  Margaret nodded and turned again to Theo. “Why doesn’t Carton propose to Lucie? Why doesn’t he court her? He moons over her, wandering around her house at night. Doesn’t Lucie deserve to make a choice?”

  Theo set his cup on a side table and took Margaret’s hand. He felt better when he was touching her. “He doesn’t feel worthy of her,” he said. “Besides, there is the little matter of Charles Darnay.”

  “Maybe Darnay’s bland perfection is boring to Lucie. What is it that Carton doesn’t have to recommend him? He claims to love her — ”

  Theo shook his head. “That, actually, I doubt. Can a man love where his devotion is not returned?” Even as he spoke the words, there was a pull in his stomach. He hadn’t told Margaret he loved her, but every day as they fell into a routine he would abandon all too soon, he felt it. That meant she must feel it too. He was waiting for the right moment to confess it all, hoping against rationality she might do so first.

  Mother interjected at that. “You don’t believe in unrequited love, Theo?”

  “Not as such,” he explained. “That seems like indulgence and idolatry, not love. The poets have that one wrong.”

  Mother’s eyes flashed. Perhaps she had made the connection between the present conversation and the drama playing out within his marriage. But if she did, she wisely said nothing.

  Margaret sighed. “Without love, I find Carton more confusing still.”

  Theo bent over her hand and brushed his mouth over it, tracing the words he could not voice onto her skin.

  “See, when you’re losing an argument, you turn toward affection as an escape,” Margaret chided, squeezing his fingers. “It won’t work. Admit Sydney Carton makes sense only if we accept Mr. Dickens’ somewhat bizarre motivation for him.”

  “Never,” Theo responded with a small laugh. Mother and Josiah groaned, but Margaret only shook her head with a smile.

  Realizing this conversation had ceased to be productive, he asked his wife, “Will you play?”

  “Only if you will turn the pages.”

  Margaret sat at the spinet and began to pick out some lovely tune while Josiah and Mother chatted. Theo moved some wisps of hair that had escaped their confines over his wife’s ear and then turned the page of her music. No one could accuse him of not being content at this moment. There was none of Sydney Carton’s melancholy complexity in him.

  “Are you well?” he said.

  Margaret made a quiet noise in her throat in assent. It was an unspoken agreement that they did not speak of the war or of current events. There was little news in any case, only much speculation. But for the sake of his domestic tranquility, Theo would rather discuss literature, music, and his wife’s beauty than anything that might cause real conflict. They had fought enough.

  Theo turned another page and closed his eyes, trying to imprint the moment in his memory so he could take it out for inspection in the future.

  “Are you well?” Margaret whispered.

  “Blissful.”<
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  • • •

  Margaret’s fingers moved over the keys of the instrument by rote, her training too strong to fail her now. Inside, she was a rushing tumult of discordant emotions and memories. The Ward parlor still felt like a foreign place. All these warm people who liked and were connected to one another — who seemed to think she was part of the family too. She didn’t know how to respond.

  The only home Margaret had ever known belonged to her sister Emily, who had married a Virginia doctor after her stint at the seminary. With seven children now, not to mention a pack of dogs and her husband’s family, it felt less like a home than a wild, over-stuffed boarding house. Margaret had always felt like an interloper there. A dependent guest who had to provide entertainment and instruction in order to justify her inclusion. The message was unspoken but clear: she might be welcome, particularly if she would help with the children, but she did not belong.

  She had always wondered what it might be like to have a relationship in which nothing was required of her. In which affection and respect were guaranteed. Theo seemed to like her in spite of herself, even when she told him difficult truths. Sarah’s chill was melting. Josiah was kind and fatherly. Mrs. Ruskin … had to come around eventually. Was this the home for which she had waited for so long?

  She sounded the final chord and scattered applause broke out. Theo was sifting through a pile of music and old newspapers on a side table.

  “I’m looking for that piece you were playing the other morning. It was lovely.”

  “Surely I must not bore you all again,” Margaret said.

  Theo slapped the music in front of her. “But we insist,” he responded. “Please?” Gone entirely was the hesitant, differential man she had thrown over. He had blossomed before her eyes.

  “Where were you two years ago?” she whispered as she commenced playing.

  He seemed not to have heard her. His fingers skimmed up her spine, and she felt the tension in her chest that had plagued her since their wedding. She knew to Theo it was exactly this easy. Drop Margaret into this scene, march off to war, and return to a happy, unified home. She knew better, however. She had been left often enough. These people were not her family. This could end as abruptly as it had begun. Even Theo …